


-click- Thank You Very Much.

by orphan_account



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Face-Fucking, M/M, PWP, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Vomiting, and yknow... dont poke the bear sokol, moral of story: dont skip you BPD meds if you're a psychopath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What happens when Jacket skips a day or two of medication and is set off by a testy Sokol, pissed about losing money in a heist because of recklessness?This.This fic happens.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yo there's all sorts of nasty puke in here (literally and figuratively) that can and will cater to a niche I've noticed carved out by bloggers I've come across... And I wanted Jacket to mess Sokol up so.
> 
> Either works.
> 
> But I'm gonna preface this really quickly before someone decides to jump on my dick about it: reality =/= fiction, and if you believe I condone the actions in this piece of writing in real life, because I wrote it as FICTION, you would be very, very wrong.
> 
> And also I'm tempted to write a sequel, my head has a few ideas bouncing around.
> 
> My blog: http://charspurpletooran.tumblr.com/

The job went by relatively smoothly, and Sokol was enjoying messing around with Sydney – her spitfire attitude and quick wit leaving the Russian snorting out laughs every other second. Which was a little counter-productive considering they were on a stealth job. Houston on the other hand, merely smiled behind his mask and shook his head in exasperation.

The three of them were bagging up the jewellery when they all paused at the sound of a silenced pistol going off. Not once... but an entire clip. Sokol had volunteered to check what the hell was going on, and grumbled testily about the waste of ammunition out of sheer boredom; excessive amounts of money or not, bullets weren't cheap for the likes of them.

Checking in on the hostage situation, the grinder balked at the blood pooling on the floor and shot their would-be assassin a hard look.

“You! What is wrong with you?” he snapped, oblivious the the unnerving silence behind Jacket's lack of tape recorder messages “Did stupid chicken man forget to take medicine today or something? Huh? They were hostages you idio-”

“Oi, the fuck is goin' on in here?” Sydney poked her head around the corner behind Sokol and let loose a low whistle “Jeeesus fuck alright uhh – hey! Houston you got any body bags mate?” she barked in question, leaving the Russian to roll his eyes with a scoff.

“Bags wont fit all, look at them. Far too many” 

Sydney blinked, mentally tallying off the multiple corpses again and sucked on her teeth.

“Better question; reckon Bain can sort out a clean up crew?”

Sokol glowered at Jacket's back when Houston called them all in to help move the bags to the van; what the hell was his problem? There was no need to be so needlessly violent at all. Sure he understood the man had done some questionable things in his past - but Bain had told all of them he'd gotten the help he needed, and that the violent outbursts such as... whatever this was, weren't or shouldn't be an issue.

Well it was an issue, and it cost all of them money. Money Sokol incredibly annoyed about losing; he could understand mistakes on jobs resulting in casualties, it happened. But whatever the fuck that was? Absolutely unnecessary, and the Russian decided he was going to give the hitman a talking to.

He'd robbed casinos before he came to Payday without losing out on a cent, and he'd be damned if he'd let one mentally unstable man ruin that for him.

It was with all the bags dumped atop the stairwell that Sydney and Houston decided to leave to join the rest of the crew at a bar down the road, the pair of them urging Jacket and Sokol to join them. Oddly enough, Jacket didn't reply, merely cocking his head with a blank expression that was... quite frankly, unnerving enough to make the Australian falter.

And Sokol?

Well, he decided he'd join them after he had that chat with Jacket, and cleaned up somewhat. It was with hugs all around – on Sydney's, (way too touchy-feely) part – that they all went off to do their own things.

Sokol didn't even let Jacket have the chance to escape into his den, storming down the stairs after him and grabbing his shoulder. He didn't turn, nor did he budge.

“You. We need to talk – what happened today was not normal, we do not kill hostages because it costs money, da? So why?”

Nothing, no reply, and the tape recorder remained untouched and unused in Jacket's letterman. Sokol scowled and shoved the man's shoulder in frustration, causing the man to stumble slightly.

“You are stupid. Fucking stupid, you know? You think because you can kill people you should and no, that is not how it works! You cost everyone money today, you understand?”

Once again, Jacket didn't reply, but he did move, turning to glower over his shoulder in a way that made the Russian feel incredibly small in comparison. It only took a brief glimpse into the outright maddened rage in his eyes, for the grinder to realise the hitman was not in the mood or the mental state for his sharp words. 

Jacket was upon him in the blink of an eye, and Sokol suddenly wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

His struggle was frighteningly brief, and with a dizzying punch he was dropped to the floor like a bag of sand. Sokol couldn't see straight, vision blurry and the room spinning so uncontrollably he felt physically sick – slurred Russian only seemed to spur Jacket on, because he straddled the younger man, one taped hand at his throat and the other delivering quick, precise punches that made Sokol feel like his skull was rattling like a bird cage.

The sobbing snarl of English that slipped from split lips only resulted in his world being turned upside-down from Jacket flipping him over. And the hand that was on his throat pinned him to the cold floor by the nape of his neck, the other... well, Sokol readily wished the hitman would knock him out, smash his head on the floor, or at the very least make him unable to recall what the hell it was doing.

He was panicking the second that hand tore his pants down, fuzzy mind slowly piecing together what such an action could mean. It didn't take long for it to click... and Sokol was terrified, but too dazed from the hitman's beatings to show it; clawing fruitlessly at the concrete in a poor attempt to get away, Jacket simply ripped his underwear from him, the sound of spitting enough to raise hairs on the back of the Russian's neck.

If he thought he was panicking before, he really started up when he felt a blunt press right up against his asshole.

Sokol jerked against him and barked out slurred Russian curses, eyes unable to focus and face bloody as he peeled his head away from the floor under Jacket's steel-like grip. It only resulted in that hand fisting his short hair and slamming his face back down against the ground. His brain was more liquefied than much else by the time the hitman forced his way into him, leaving Sokol moaning pitifully scraping blunt nails across the floor in pain. 

This could not be happening.

But oh it was, and Jacket made sure he realised it with every fiery snap of his hips that had the Russian sobbing through his stuffy, bloody nose. He was merciless, even going as far as releasing Sokol to brace himself on the concrete and really go to town, bucking hard and fast into the dazed grinder. And then, the hitman appeared to find what he was looking for when Sokol saw stars, the dizzying pleasure mixed with pain enough to have him stretch out beneath Jacket with a low groan that mortified him.

The breathy noise of amusement above him only made Sokol even more horrified when he found his self control had all but left him, loud moans and burning spikes of forced pleasure curling his toes and making his eyes roll back; even the feeling of his half hard cock pressing into the rough surface of the floor was enough to have him shivering. But Jacket didn't leave it at that, no.

In another dizzying movement and flurry of limbs, Sokol found himself on his back again, Jacket's teeth leaving painful marks on his throat with every frenzied slap of skin against skin. It was fucking awful, but felt so goddamn good that it took a second for the grinder to realise he'd been blindly clawing at Jacket's letterman, clinging to the hitman as he milked him for all he was worth.

The sounds, the smell, the taste of blood on his tongue and bile burning his throat; Sokol howled with his ridiculously fast climax, spitting every curse known in Russian and English at Jacket as he came all over their fronts. It was terrifying both how acutely aware he was of Jacket, and how quickly this had evolved far beyond what he'd thought possible. Fear was the furthest thing on his mind – with narrowed eyes that looked monstrously frigid, Sokol's only instinct kicking in was that of survival.

Jacket didn't even give him time to recover nor sort out his jumbled thoughts, before his hair was pulled painfully and he realised that not only had the hitman not cum, but he'd pulled out and was dragging the grinder to his knees, right to the perfect level as he stood. He knew what was expected of him in such a vulnerable position, but that didn't mean he would do it without a damn fight of some kind.

Sokol recoiled at the filthy cock that pressed against his bloody face, the damn thing smearing god-knows-what across his cheeks, nose, and lips. Still, his mouth remained defiantly closed, the angry glower he shot up at Jacket muted by the tears clinging to dark lashes. The hitman blinked boredly, and it was with a swift hit to his throat that the Russian gagged, and Jacket took advantage and fucked right into his perfectly tight mouth. 

So much for the fight.

The soft sigh above him showed the complete polarities of what they were experiencing; the taste of blood, the foulness of his own ass, and the sheer girth of Jacket's cock left Sokol's throat spasming around him in warning, bile burning the back of his throat and bleeding nose. If he bit down, he knew he'd be signing his own death certificate – Jacket was not to be pushed if he wanted to get out of this alive.

Tears pricked in his eyes, and Sokol blinked through them to see the hitman looking down at him wickedly, an abnormally cruel curl to his lips as hands carded through sandy hair and forced the Russian to move. 

Conveniently, the grinder remembered he had arms at his disposal, and weakly tried to shove the man off of him, even going as far as to throw his weight back. Jacket didn't budge an inch, snapping hips forward until the tangle of blond curls at the base of his cock caught in teeth. 

Sokol's stomach lurched.

And without warning, his throat tightened, saliva pooled in his overstuffed mouth, and bile burned. Oh god did it burn. He couldn't stop the way his entire body convulsed under his vomiting fit, stomach acid burning up his nose and mixing with blood to drip like a leaking tap, the majority of it spluttered out around the hitman's cock.

Jacket paid no mind to the Russian's plight, going as far as to choke the man through his puke and pull back enough for the foul smelling mess to to pour out down his chin, his neck and front. Sokol coughed and hacked, tears falling freely with the unpleasant burn of stomach acid.

He didn't even have a second to catch his breath before Jacket was on him again.

Eyes bleary and throat burning like hell, Sokol recoiled at the hand tangling in short hair, failing to realise that by panting in a poor attempt to catch his breath, he'd given Jacket yet another opening. It was with a groan that sounded far more like a sob, that the Russian complied to the hitman rocking into his mouth again, hands that once pushed away now merely holding on an grounding him through the rough pace.

Jacket was merciless, bucking into Sokol's mouth with very little concern about letting the man breathe; and if the grinder thought his head was spinning before, the lack of oxygen only made stars dance in the corners of his vision. Then Jacket pulled back, and the Russian sucked in air so fast it took him a second to realise that in doing so, he'd only tightened around the hitman's cock.

Jacket purred, that hand that twisted painfully hard in his hair... was now petting and gentle, carding through sandy locks in an almost affectionate way. Sokol blinked through tears, sniffed through blood and the burn at the back of his throat... and gingerly repeated the action, only succeeding in sucking the man's cock further into his mouth and a breath of air with it.

A long moan – a first real noise from him – had the Russian almost forget what exactly was happening, that Jacket had taken to using him like some sort of toy.

The worst part simply being that Sokol felt like preening after getting such a reaction out of him. It made him feel sick; he felt disgustingly proud of it, and he was revolted with how his body seemed to just comply and take Jacket's cock like nothing was inherently fucked up with the situation at all. 

Bile burned the back of his throat a second time at a particularly deep roll of the hitmans hips, and Sokol dug blunt nails into blue denim, tears pricking in his eyes again as his gag reflex kicked in, hard. He blinked through them up at the man, feeling very much like a mouse caught by a cat that would rather play with it's food than deliver the finishing blow. 

Jacket hummed in the back of his throat, slowing his pace down to a languid, deep rolls of his hips... And Sokol didn't know what was worse; the faux kindness, or the frenzied, bloody violation of his body – it was abhorrent, feeling every inch of the hitman's cock glide into his mouth, the man not minding the grazing of teeth, nor complaining in the slightest at the grinder's throat closing up around him every time he nudged the back of his throat.

Sokol however, felt his stomach churn a second time, and wasn't entirely sure whether the blood he was tasting was from his nose or the rough treatment of his mouth. Not that it seemed to matter because for the second time, vomit shot up his throat and around Jacket's cock, forcing the hitman back with a quiet noise of disapproval. Sokol coughed through the puke dribbling over curled lips and spat out what remained with a grimace, barking hoarsely when the hitman's foot pressed into his chest and pushed him down flat to the ground.

Staring up at him through a dangerously swimming vision, Sokol had to do a double-take at Jacket's cold, considering expression, his stomach dropping again when he leaned down to grab his ankles, dragging him back through his own cooling vomit with a wicked glint in his eyes. 

There was little time for the Russian's revulsion to take hold before the hitman was on top of him again, and Sokol's hands flew to Jacket's shoulders out of pure reflex at being tipped off kilter. His legs were lifted, thrown over the man's shoulders... and in the brief moment he made eye contact with the killer, the grinder saw nothing but sick amusement crinkling corners of his eyes.

Sokol yowled like a wounded animal at press of Jacket's cock, reaching for anything and everything; clawing at Jacket's face, neck and shoulders until the hitman made a quiet noise of frustration, snatching both hands by the wrists and pinning them above his head. The Russian sniffled through the blood, the vomit and the burning bile itching the back of his throat, tears flowing freely with his pained wails; he had this coming, this was his fault. It had to be. He was poking a murderous bear and happened to get him in a bad mood.

It was no one's fault but his own, and Sokol hated how Jacket was getting him hard again.

The grinder had no idea what it was, no idea how he was doing it, but with every hard snap of his hips he could feel something incredible; it was like nothing he'd ever felt before and he both hated and loved how it felt – even moreso when the hitman went faster, his thrusts getting more frenzied and his taped hand curling around Sokol's half hard cock.

He sobbed; it burned in the most painfully good way, and the Russian could feel his thighs shaking under the intense pleasure forced upon him – it took him a second to realise the warbled noises he was hearing, was actually his own voice, begging, pleading... what for, he didn't know. And that terrified him. 

It scared him, not knowing whether he was begging for Jacket to get him off, or begging for Jacket to get off of him – and it was only when a hand gripped his jaw and forced him to pay attention, that Sokol keened in such a mortifying way, cumming a second time with the hitman forcing his tongue into his mouth and licking the backs of his teeth.

The snarl against his lips brought the Russian down from his momentary high, and Sokol whimpered in such a pitiful way at the burning feeling of cum flooding into him. He would honestly rather die than admit he'd gotten off not once, but twice because of a violent tryst he wanted no part of. 

Jacket rumbled, nibbling the Russian's lips with a cool smile curving lips upward in a mocking show of affection. Sokol's throat tightened, and he sobbed, tears matting already sweaty hair to his scalp; how the hitman could force a kiss on him and not mind the taste of vomit was beyond him – it was worse having him pull away to leave, if he were honest. He was already disgustingly violated in every form, and then he just had to steal a kiss too. 

It made him want to scrub his skin raw, he thought darkly, laying as still as possible while the older man pulled away to stand up. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights; unable and unwilling to move lest it draw attention to himself.

“..Wh-... Зачем?” Sokol murmured in question, his voice hoarse and turning into a shivering mess on the floor – more out of a sudden fear of Jacket he refused to acknowledge, than the temperature. Jacket peered down at him consideringly, the frightening rage in his eyes from the beginning of their tryst having simmered down to warm embers of indifference. 

Like what had just happened wasn't an enormous deal.

Sokol's fear melted away as fast as it had rose, and the anger of being used and discarded so quickly bubbled up to replace it. It was enough to have him shoot upright with lips curled in a fury. 

Except the room spun with the sudden movement, and _oh._

Jacket had beaten him senseless, and now that he was aware of it completely and not at the mercy of the hitman, it felt like someone had shoved him face first into a jet turbine – he was sure his nose was broken, the scar on the bridge probably due to have another few scattered alongside it. His eyes were going to be black and blue in the morning... and if he were honest, it felt like Jacket may have knocked some teeth lose.

Running his tongue along them, the Russian paused at a missing molar, prodding the tender and bloody socket with a grimace. How nice, he'd probably swallowed the damn thing in the heat of the moment. Sokol blinked in quiet realisation, and looked down at the mess of vomit on his front; well, he could have thrown it back up, too.

Jacket was moving again, and Sokol hated how hard he flinched, peering up at the man to find him quite simply leaving, whistling an unfamiliar tune as he leisurely made his way up the spiral stairs without a glance back.

The crackle of his tape recorder made the Russian blink in surprise.

“Thank you for traveling with us - _kchhht_ \- We look forward to seeing you again soon.”

Click.

With those ominous words spoken through tape form, Sokol was left feeling like the safehouse had just become something a lot more sinister than initially intended; The safety and reprieve promised at the building had been violated, not unlike the shaking Russian lying abandoned on the basement floor. 


End file.
